Wasteland

The curtains are dark. The sun has left the sky for the day, surrendering the world to darkness. Jack tied back the curtains to let in the moon shine in. The silvery light beamed onto the floor and seemed to illuminate the room in a soft glow. Jack seems as a ghost as he glanced down at the villagers coming to dinner. The murmur of conversation grew louder as more people filed in. Egor had brought them a plate of fruit. Jack had accepted the food, only opening the door wide enough to allow the plate to pass between the jam and the knob. She had barely heard the instructions he gave his servant, informing him that tavern duties would be his that night. Egor's face was blocked by the door, but she heard a confirming grunt and saw Jack hand the ghoul a mutifruit from the plate. She wondered if the offering was a thanks or sorts. She wanted to think it was, that the man Jack had been was kinder now by some experience of his youth he had yet to tell her. She wanted to believe he was the good man, the way he seemed to want her to see him.

Lying next to him with the plate of fruit between them, she was uncertain of what to believe. There was no doubt that what he told her was truth, in a fashion. It was his truth. If there were lies in it, she could not have pointed them out, but she felt something was missing. Thus far he had given her no reason for her own to mistrust him, so she took him at his word with a grain of sand. His tale was nearly finished, or would be by dawn. Surely he would sleep then, as would the rest of the household and the town below. That would be her chance to escape, if she truly was his captive, if she truly intended to leave. She finished the thought when she finished the apple, wondering just where he managed to obtain fresh fruit in the middle of what was essentially a desert.

"I 'spose ya wanna know how I ended up h're an' why I'm not a slaver any m're." Jack said casually, un-eaten apple in hand.

"I 'spose I do." She answered simply.

It was really the only question left to give her any insight into he this man was. Maybe, within that tale, she would find the reason she cared. Again, she waited patently. Her bright eyes focused on the silvery ones across from her in the dark. The matches and the candle lay on the floor, snuffed out when Egor arrived at the door with food. The moon was bright enough, and still low to the horizon, to filter in and halo around his form and spill onto hers. The sweet scents of the fruit was tainted by the dust. She heard his heavy sigh, advising of the story to come that he was burdened to share. His callous hands kept to the food as he began the end of his narrative.

"The simple accountin' is that I left. Things went bad, an' I left. Lossa death. Scout come wit' me, but he din' make it. He died wit' a bullet in 'is head. I foun' this town a-wonderin' out th're." He nodded behind him to the open window, indicating the wasteland. "Kind folks that they be, they lemme in, not knowin' wh're I come from or what I been. Tavern was already h'er. Egor was too. Ran the bar e'en then. Man who owned it took me unner his wing, so t'speak. Learned me the ropes an' I done a job fer the needs of livin'. Gamme a room. I had t'share, but it what'en a vex. The day 'e died 'e gamme the place. Said I earned it, an' I was like a son t'em. Ya might say I inheri'ed it. Not much t'tell af'er that. I took over. Folks had already accepted me as 'ne o'their own. Not much of a step t'accep' me as the heir to the bar."

"Did Egor talk then?" She asked, inquiring politely about the ghoul's tongue.

"I cain't tell ya. Don' 'member him e'er talkin' much. Cain't tell ya how 'e lost it either. May hap' 'e got catched takin' what din' belong t'em. May hap' 'e told the wrong man a lie once. He ain't ne'er been able t'tell me!"

The laugh that rolled rumbling through the air like a growl of a bear, hit her as a puff of apple scented wind. She had to admit that the joke had been cleaver, and she rewarded him with a smile. It would take more than dark humor to pull a genuine laugh from her. His chuckles gradually subsided, and his eyes met hers once more. They dimmed again, taking him back to the memory of those years he'd summoned for her. By the look in those eyes and the sternness of his face, she could only assume the thoughts he had were no less dark than the night itself. When he went wherever he kept his secrets locked inside his mind, she lay on the mattress and planned her escape.

He wakes in his room with the warm body of Anne beside him. He doesn't hear the usual smacking of balls rolling across the pool table as they're hit with the stick or the low murmur of idle conversation. He thinks he is either early or late and left behind. He doubts the team would leave him behind. He always brings in the most profitable catch. Slowly he leaves the bed, sore from the run the day before. He brought in three children and their parents that day. Women and children always sell for the most. Men were trouble, especially if they had families. A buyer was scheduled to arrive later that afternoon to take the male off their hands.

Jack dresses in his traditional denims and tee to go assure himself that everything is well. He checks his boots by the door for spiders before pushing his feet inside. Only a week before a man called Lucky died of a spider bite on his foot. Jack had laughed, thinking it ironic on account of the name. But that was then. Today he doesn't want to be the one with the bite on his foot.

The door opens with a aged creaking. There's no one in the common room. It's as empty as it was full when he killed Blade on the pool table. The blood stains are still clearly visible on the pool table where he hit and the wood floor where he finally lay. Jack leaves the room, not looking back. He has a lock on his door now, and he secures it behind him. Putting the key back in his pocket, he ventures down the warped, creaky stairs. His boots echo loudly in his ears as he crosses the common room. The daylight from outside makes a bright square on the floor like another doorway to some other world. He sees no one in the courtyard from where he is, but he can hear voices, arguing voices. He can't understand what they're saying, though he strains to listen. He cautiously nears the open doorway as the arguing turns to shouting. One of the men is Boss. Jack recognizes his booming voice over the others. He's been challenged for power by a man called Bull.

Jack leaves the main house, the dust rising in a cloud around his footsteps as he races over to the divided crowd, each backing their man. He's angry that no one woke him for the vote, but there's no point in making a fuss about it. Spotting Scout waving to him from the edge of the crowd backing Boss. He runs over to him, steel resolve hardening his face. Before Scout can explain the situation a gun shot is heard. The repercussive sound rolls across the compound and echos against the clear morning sky. Men are shouting 'They shot Boss!' and 'Kill them!'. He doesn't panic, but he isn't going to stick around for the blood bath that is rushing to become. He grabs his angry and confused friend by the arm and they run to the main house. Scout keeps asking him what he's going to do, but Jack doesn't answer. He is working out a plan as he runs up the stairs to grab the girls. He doesn't love them, but they don't deserve to die. Not chained to a bed or by crazed men out for blood, and he's not about to loose his most valuable property be turned to dust either.

They are both already awake and confused as he tosses them tunic style dresses to wear from his wardrobe. They ask him about the shouting and the gun fire, but he only tells them that they have to go and not to dally about as he unshackles Lucy from the bed leg. If she runs, as he suspected she would her first opportunity, then he'll shot her himself. He makes sure to tell her so at the point of a gun he had stashed under the mattress. Scout is still waiting, cowering behind the pool table when Jack descends the stairs, his pets in tow.

'Let's go!' Jack orders Scout, but doesn't wait for him to follow.

The chaos outside is their cover from notice. He leads his girls and his friend to the armory. Everything on the shelves has been taken, but Jack knows there's more. A hidden trap door in the floor of the back room takes them to a tunnel. He knows it won't stay secret for long. The man who he learned of it from was dead, but others would explore looking for loot or fodder and find it. The underground bunker holds enough weapons and ammo to equip a small army. Boss had told him that the compound used to be a military outpost before the bombs fell. All the green wooden boxes with rifles and shot guns inside are marked with the letters U.S. Boss had taught him a little about how to read after he was marked. It makes little sense to him that the military would have put the word 'us' on the boxes, but it doesn't matter. He gives Lucy and Anne each a fully loaded .357 revolver and hopes they can figure it out. There's no time to teach them. Scout picks a hunting rifle and a revolver of his own. Jack takes a submachine gun, shoving his N99 10mm pistol in his pant waist. He loads up a backpack full of ammo. He starts to instruct Scout to grab a pack full of *M.C.I.'s and water, but Scout is a step ahead of him. It is the first time he's smiled in weeks. Further down the hall he finds the door that will take them up into Bosses office. There are likely to be men looting it's spaces for whatever they may find and he readies his gun.

The trap door under Bosses desk wasn't often used. The dirt that has settled over it rains down on Scout and the girls as Jack stains to lift it open. The hatch complains quietly as he emerges from it's hidden hole. Scout is quick to follow and closes the door on the girls until they ensure the room is empty or dead. Jack jumps up from cover, ready to fire, but no one is in the room. No one is even trying to get in, at least, not yet. The shouting and gunfire he hears from the other side of the walls lets him know the battle is making it's way to the entrance the way a fresh puddle spreads out over the low areas of the floor.

'Get the girls.' He tells Scout, who hasn't spoken a word sense leaving the main house. 'We's gonna foller 'em t'the gates and slip out 'mongst the commotion.'

'Are ye crazy?' Scout asks him, the gun is shaking in his unsteady hands.

'Naw, an' ye betta get a grip or ya gonna get us killt.' Jack answers and takes aim at the door, just in case.

Anne and Lucy keep their peace. He's taught them better than to open their mouths when they shouldn't. Jack unlocks the bolt that holds the door shut and peeks out through a small crack. He can hear the shouting and the dieing, but it's not on their doorstep. The violence has passed them. He moves quickly and the others follow him like frightened children. Scout had shot plenty in his time, but never one of his own and never to kill. Merchandise was worth more wounded than dead. Jack knows his friend well enough to know he might not be able to shoot a fellow slaver if the need arises, but he needs him as an extra gun until they can get passed the front gates. After that, it will depend wholly on his performance up to that point.

Their way to the front gate is unimpeded, but he never let's down his guard. His eyes are ever watchful and his finger ever ready on the trigger. The sounds of chaos are louder as they close in on th front gates. Jack leads his followers into the shrinking shadows as noon draws nigh. He can see the gates and the battle that is moving slowly passed it to the new recruits barracks. The gate guards are dead, beaten or trampled to death, caught in the storm that over took them. Jack runs up to the last line of men killing each other. The gate is ajar, pushed open just enough to slip through it. Maybe others had the same idea, could be slaves that managed to break out. It doesn't matter. He's not a slaver any more. Just a man with a friend and two women following him, trying to escape death by the hands of a blood crazed mob. He'll come back in a few days to to see what's left.

Jack runs. Whether they others are still behind him or not he doesn't know or care. Somewhere in his mind a nursery rhyme speaks in a voice he doesn't recognize. It's a woman and she's almost singing; 'Jack be nimble! Jack be quick! Jack jump over the candle stick!' And he is nimble, and he is quick as he runs across the dry and dusty plain toward the horizon, hoping to find shelter to hide him from the sun and any hostile that may follow him. Jack runs and the ground opens up before him as the incline he's scaling suddenly drops in a sheer cliff. Jack jumps without thinking, without hesitation. He'd rather die than risk becoming a slave again under the new dictator. He's never felt more free than he does when his feet leave the solidity of earth and take to the air. For a few short moments he feels like he's flying. The wind pushes his long, sandy hair away from his face, cooling the sweat on his brow to which strands of hair or plastered. The sun feels warm and liberating instead of hot and oppressing. The sensation puts a smile on his face and all his worries, for a few seconds, are left behind him in the dust.

Pain hits him like he hits the ground, hard and fast. Agony worse than any he's ever felt jars his body and, in his moment of purity, he cries out his distress. When finally he can open his eyes, his vision is blurred by the tears forced from the ducts that have not performed this duty in nearly two decades. Angry at his perceived weakness, Jack roughly smudges away the wetness. Men may cry, but Jack does not. Jack cannot cry. Moments later Scout appears, panting at the top of the ravine that is a long dry river bed. His friend slides down the side as carefully as he can, sending pebbles and smaller rocks tumbling down the side. A cloud of dust billows up and Jack is angry at Scout's unintentional smoke signal. Seeing his legs, bloody and broken, he elects to hold his tongue. He is in no condition to exert authority.

'Jack, are ya okay?'

Scout shows a concern that he has never seen before. It makes him uncomfortable, but it is better than what he would have done had their roles been reversed. Soon after, the women appear and slide down the cliff. More dust billows up over the river bed. Anne has something on her back, a pack he didn't notice she had taken. She runs over to him, throwing herself on her knees at his feet. She doesn't say a word as she slings the pack off her shoulders and un-zips it. Inside she's packed away medical supplies, bandages, stints, vodka for cleaning wounds, everything she would need to set hit legs. She has a stick in one hand that she grabbed up from the dirt and she pushes this into Jacks mouth. He knows what it's for and braces himself. Anne works like a woman desperate to save a loved one, skill replaced with need as she has his companions help her hold him down. Lucy pulls his shin as Anne pushes the bone back into place. It takes a few tries before she lines it up correctly, digging out the shattered bits of bone and severed flesh. Jack tries not to cry out, but the pain is too much. He screams at the sky with all the hatred and rage and pain of his life, released by the torture of Anne's aid. When both legs are set and cleaned, Anne wraps more bandages around the secured stints. Wounded as he was, Jack could not run and his companions would not leave him. He feels faint from the pain, loss of blood and dehydration. He orders them to leave him there with food, water and ammo for his guns. He is enraged by Scout's refusal and the stress takes the last of his energy. He faints, undignified and helpless in the dust. The bright noon sun beats down on him from the dingy sky and his world goes dark and silent.


*M.C.I.; Meal, Compat, Individual rations